


Birds in Flight

by slashsailing



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slashsailing/pseuds/slashsailing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They said Clint Barton was a heavy-handed hick. They said he was bloody-bruised and broken bones. They said he was the fractured edges of broken glass and dirt under chipped fingernails. But Phil isn't at all convinced by that assessment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birds in Flight

They said Clint Barton was a heavy-handed hick. They said he was bloody-bruised and broken bones. They said he was the fractured edges of broken glass and dirt under chipped fingernails.

And maybe a lot of those things were not such an exaggeration. Certainly much of what they said about Clint Barton found its basis in sight of him that first day Phil Coulson brought him into SHIELD headquarters, bleeding heavily from a precise bullet wound to his shoulder, blood gushing thick and red all over him, all over Phil’s white shirt. They said it was like clipping his wing—a recurrent joke Phil always looked upon with distaste.

Because none of that was ever how Phil saw Clint.

If Clint was a collection of glass fragments, then those pieces must have been shattered from stained glass. If Clint was nothing more than the debris of the broken doors and smashed windows he had left in his wake, then it was only because of the light that reflected off the shards of his battered heart. And if Clint Barton was a bird—and let it be known that Phil will never been a fan of the Hawkeye moniker—it was not because he was small or fragile. It was not because he had been clipped and caged and trained like a talking parrot. It was because Clint Barton  _soars_ , time and time again, and always against the odds.

So regardless what other agents did or did not say about Clint, barely twenty-two years old when Phil found him, Phil always knew he was something more. Something else.

Although that  _something else_  should never have become  _love interest_ ; that is a development that definitely should never have occurred.

And yet here Phil is, kissing a line down Clint’s sternum, wondering whether or not it might be a little too much to ask Clint if he’d like to have dinner together. A ridiculous notion, highly ridiculous, not only because fraternisation is frowned upon, not only because Clint is almost a decade his junior but because Phil Coulson is not supposed to be entertaining these thoughts about Clint whatsoever. He had promised himself two months ago when that initial spark of attraction first surfaced that he was going to quell it—and quell it good—and move right the fuck on so that he could remain as Clint’s, as  _Barton’s_ , handler.  

And yet here he is, well on his way to dipping his tongue into Clint’s naval. And then lower.

It’s stupid, beyond stupid. So damn stupid Phil has to wonder how Fury ever thought it would be a good decision to give him clearance any higher than level one.

It’s been two years since Clint first joined SHIELD; two hard years of working through his trust issues, clawing back some semblance of self-worth. Two years of trying desperately to convince this kid—because really that’s what he is—that Phil is a safe place, a reliable place, and that it’s okay to need him.

This isn’t the sort of need Phil had in mind.

But he can’t stop himself from indulging it, indulging  _in_  it. His hands, magnetised to Clint’s body, are unwavering in their exploration, feeling every dip and curve of muscle, every raised line of scar-tissue. Phil’s hands want every freckle, every blemish, every stretch mark laid out beneath them, they want to know this body better than they know their own and Phil—because, God, he’s a weak man—Phil just can’t stop them.

He wants Clint to feel like more than just a wreckage and if it means Phil has to split his lips bloody on the splinters of Clint’s soul to prove it, well, he’s more than willing. More than willing to show Clint he’s whole; that, sure, there are hairline fractures, there are cuts and grazes, there are bumps in the road—and Phil knows all about bumps in the road—but it’s just surface damage. Inside, Clint couldn’t be less broken. Clint is that sunshine-haired boy with wide eyes and an honest heart. He’s wry and sarcastic and so fucking disobedient but Phil’s never worked with anyone like him, integrity and steadfastness imbued into everything he does.

Yes, Clint has done some bad things; he’s been a thief and a thug and a misguided tool for a lot lot worse. But that isn’t  _him_. It’s surface wear, just a little damage to the front cover, like those worn out old comic books Phil treasures, Captain America’s pages a little crinkled from too much love and longing.

“Phil.” Clint’s breathing is ragged. His voice sounds so young like this, so vulnerable. Phil wonders how many people have been here before with Clint, how many people have gotten to touch and kiss where Phil is now. Jealousy and possession flare up inside Phil and he bites down on the sensitive jut of Clint’s hip, hands fumbling with the zipper of Clint’s jeans.

“I’ve got you,” Phil says, and it seems like the right thing to say. Clint chuffs out a laugh, and Phil looks up the length of his body, thrown back on a crummy motel bed, to Clint’s face, nodding as he half-smiles, one hand curled against his clavicle and the other clutching the bed sheets.

“I know,” Clint whispers. “I know you do.”

It’s enough affirmation that Phil feels a little more settled when he finally wraps his lips around Clint, hollowing out his cheeks, bobbing his head.

And Clint turns into mush under him, thighs loose and pliant, one hand soft and easy in Phil’s hair, scratching gently over his scalp.

This shouldn’t be how it finishes, not when Clint starts mewling and shuddering, body begging for more when his mouth won’t. He’s so damn stubborn, so damn reluctant to ask for what he wants. Phil knows why, knows how many times Clint has heard ‘no’. It has to resonate a little, has to linger deep down like a heavy boulder unmoveable in thrashing white rapids. But this isn’t really the place for anything more. Phil doesn’t exactly come ready for this sort of scenario, he’s not sure he’s even got a condom tucked up inside his wallet let alone anything else.

So he holds Clint’s hips down against the bed and sucks as much of Clint into his mouth as Phil can take. He wants to make the promise of more obvious but he’s not sure he knows how. But then Clint is coming and Phil swallows around him, his own cock rock hard in his neatly pressed suit pants, straining against the material uncomfortably.

They don’t talk about it. When Clint’s breathing finally begins to slow and he unclasps his hand from Phil’s hair, Phil simply kisses his thigh once, twice more, and tells Clint to go to sleep. They’ve got a long day tomorrow, a lot of work to do, a mission to complete.

They manage it the way they always do, efficient and flawless. Then they’re back in HQ and once again they’re _Barton_ and  _Sir_ and not a single word is mentioned about how much Phil wants—and wanted to—bury himself inside Clint until neither of them know up from down. They don’t talk about Chicago. But then Chicago becomes Sofia becomes Guatemala becomes Kampala becomes every damn assignment they take and all it ever is is a blow job on dirty sheets like Clint is just some means to an end.

“You ever want more than this?” Phil asks, he’s looking at himself in a hotel mirror in a horrible part of Amsterdam—another city ruined for him—but he’s talking to Clint and Clint damn well knows it.

“Yeah,” Clint says after a while. There is consideration in his voice and Phil waits for more. “But you never bring a condom.”

That hadn't exactly been what Phil was asking. It's a deflection, he realises, on Clint's part, but it still makes Phil think. And think hard. It’s been two years since Chicago—and the marker always seems to be two years with them—and they know what’s going to happen if they’re assigned an overnight stay anywhere. So why don’t they come a little more prepared?

Maybe it’s a subconscious bid for a little decorum on Phil’s part since he’s pretty sure that if he fucks Clint—and it’s gotta be more like making love by this point because Phil knows the difference, he knows how fucking reverently he would hold every inch of Clint—there’s no going back. He’ll be in deeper than he’s ever been before with anyone. He trusts Clint with his life, with the lives of those Phil has a duty to protect, and Phil is starting to trust Clint with himself, with the delicate bits of him; the intricacies, the intimacies. Phil’s pretty hard pressed to not come right out and say he trusts Clint with his heart.

Then they’re in Zagreb six weeks later—the hotel has to be the fanciest they’ve ever stayed in. They actually have a suite with two double rooms connected by locking doors to a joined sitting room. The décor, imbued with a Rococo sort of splendour that Phil hates and loves in equal measure, offers more luxury than the two men are used to and Clint has no qualms about completely abusing it. He takes a bath, leaving the bathroom door wide open for Phil to see and admire while trying his best not to and trailing bubbles all over the floor and into the suite, naked as though they’re lovers on a romantic weekend break and not here to potentially shoot a couple scores of Hydra agents.

“People usually use towels.”

“Not as if you haven’t seen it all before.”

Phil can’t argue that point.

He’s also a complete hypocrite because after their last talk surrounding their sexual exploits—and more specifically how to further them—Phil made sure to bring a box of condoms and a small tube of K-Y with him. Both of which are still tucked in his briefcase because he is not only utterly unprofessional but apparently completely useless too.

Although this time things start differently, which should send alarm bells ringing in his ears because despite the fact that Clint is the naked one and it would be so easy for Phil to drop to his knees, it turns out Clint is very eager to give this blow job thing a go. His arms and torso are still a little wet and it makes Phil’s suit pants a little wet but he can’t really dwell too much on all that once Clint has his mouth around him. Phil’s actually quite sure that Clint just sucks his brains right the fuck out which is probably the reason he loses every ounce of control, even before he comes, and pushes Clint back against the floor.

“I’ve got condoms,” Phil rasps, his usually cool veneer one hundred percent gone. Obliterated. “You’re a tease, Clint.”

“Yes, sir,” Clint acknowledges. Phil would growl, would bite him right there hard on the shoulder but Clint is smiling and it’s so beautiful that Phil almost forgets his objectives—get condom, get lube, get inside Clint. It’s easy, it’s three steps; Phil just has to snap the fuck out of waxing poetically over the state of Clint’s ever changing blue-green eyes with those damn specks of grey and gold like he’s some sort of treasure chest.

_Goddammit Coulson, focus._

Get condom. Get lube. Get inside Clint.

It actually takes a lot more than that because Phil just adores the long road, has a habit of making more of things than strictly necessary.

But this is necessary. The slow road is the only road Phil is willing to take with Clint. Clint doesn’t deserve anything less.

So Phil gets his briefcase, laughs along with Clint when he has to open it up and slip sex supplies out from under his SHIELD paperwork, and then sets them down by Clint’s hip. The lube is really the only important part of the process right now, and Phil coats his fingers with it.

“It’s a little cold.”

“It’s January in Croatia, I think I can handle it.”

Phil scoffs and lets the fond smile squeeze past his habitually tight barriers. Clint doesn’t flinch when Phil rubs his middle and index finger over Clint’s hole, smearing lube languidly, like they’ve got all day, massaging Clint’s perineum and kissing the bend of his knee.  

“ _Phil._ ”

There’s teasing and then there’s torture and Phil likes to think he can judge it just right, sliding a finger and then two inside Clint, scissoring until he can fit a third finger snugly beside the other two, routing out Clint’s prostate and nudging that for a while until Clint looks torn between coming and punching Phil right in the face.

“I’ve got you,” Phil says, pressing a kiss to Clint’s abdomen before pulling himself up onto his knees and rolling on a condom. He cradles Clint’s thighs, pushing them up higher until Clint’s ass is bared for Phil. The moment they’ve been waiting for for months.

They spare a glance at each other, heated and tender all at once.

“I know you do,” Clint whispers, voice rough. “Now come get a little more of me.”

And Phil—completely compromised by what they all call a wounded, wingless boy—is happy to comply.


End file.
